I blinked and my baby brother turned 27. Twenty-seven may be a bit too old to be considered a baby. Yes, he's a grown man. Yes, he is a loving father to Laila and Emmy (dog & cat). Yes, he has his own business. But still... he'll always be my baby brother.
Happy Golden Birthday, T. It's a fitting name for the occasion because there's so much gold in you.
Making me laugh since 1989
A “plot twist” in this chapter in Korea, equally unexpected and heart-swelling, has been meeting Non-Koreans with a deep love for this nation.
Some of the closest friends I’ve made here are what native Koreans call “외국인" ("foreigner") but their hearts beat, break and burn for Korea, for its people, for its prosperity and peace.
And let me tell you… it’s contagious. It spurs me on to love this nation more. It’s a precious thing. Like-minded, like-hearted people running full-speed ahead together.
One of the first times I got to really talking to my friend M, we were sitting at a quaint café with splashes of color on its walls, a cottage retreat in the middle of Gangnam’s hubbub. We somehow got on the topic of blogs and writing. And shortly after, she re-joined the blog world with her amazing site: Leave and Soak.
She is one of the very people I described, with a heart for this motherland of mine. Compelled by love, she began a series on her blog: Seoul City Postcards: a collaboration and symposium of writers of all kinds – highlighting a favorite neighborhood in Seoul waiting to be explored, waiting to be loved. It's a resource I turn to when I find myself feeling particularly adventurous, an inspiration to embrace this season, a call to love this city, a call to bloom where you are planted.
Sometimes I picture such creative energy and synergy being sprinkled like pixie dust over this land, birthing new ideas and new ideals in a land often stifled by conformity and confusion.
Korea, you are so loved. You are beautiful.
I meet with a ten-year-old girl each week. I have the honor of tutoring her and she and I go on adventures together, through the world of Children's Literature, discussing the characters, their emotions, and the happenings of their lives. We even get to write make-believe letters to some of these very characters and sometimes, we even dabble in the world of poetry.
Confession: Sometimes, I pretend that I'm in a two-person book club with this ten-year-old friend of mine.
At my first meeting with this friend, I asked her what her favorite book was. Though she named several, one of them stood out to me: The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane. I jotted it down on my "To read" list. After getting my hands on it, I read it in a day.
Filled with a deep sadness that I don't often associate with a children's book, it touched on the brokenness and fragility of life, but equally whisked me away in a state of nostalgia, bringing back memories of the past, childhood conjectures and reveries. The story is about Edward Tulane, a china rabbit and his journey with many owners. A rabbit who learns to love and be loved and to hope in love.
Reading this story, I dug up a memory from the dusty depths of my childhood. Sometime in elementary school (I was probably around the same age as my previously mentioned friend), I had had a stuffed animal dog - possibly a mix between a Black Lab and a Rottweiler. I believe it was a gift my brother had received, but somehow this dog became mine. She was my companion on a family trip to Maryland. Unfortunately, my absent-mindedness led me to leave this companion behind at the hotel.
When I came to this realization, I cried. I cried at the thought of having abandoned my "dog". I cried because I felt guilty. "I'm a horrible owner... How could I have forgotten about my dog?" My vivid imagination took me on a downward spiral, envisioning my dog's less-than-fortunate encounter with future owners, less-loving, some even abusive.
My dad luckily came to my rescue. He dialed the number to the hotel we had stayed at, and requested they mail us my dog. I remember the relief that washed over me after our reunion.
It pains me to think that I don't even remember what I had named this "dog" of mine, nor do I know where this dog is now. And it got me thinking...
When had I stopped dreaming? What had come of my imagination? When did I become more consumed with others' expectations than valuing the core of who I am?
“For in every adult there dwells the child that was...”
But that fourth-grader is still there, somewhere inside of me. Her dreams, her hopes, her imagination, her innocence... they're still here, in the deepest chambers of my heart.
When Y proposed to me (almost six years ago!), underneath the magnificent starry ceiling of the Main Concourse of Grand Central Terminal, he said one line I will always remember: "I want to grow old and young with you." I giggled as he nervously uttered these words, because it was a play-on-words (his name being Young). I secretly thought to myself, "How can you grow young?" and I chuckled mainly because I too was nervous. But little did twenty-four-year-old Grace realize what a profound statement this was.
"It takes a very long time to become young." -Pablo Picasso
Weeks have turned into months, flying by right before my eyes. And I desperately and frantically wave my arms in attempt to grab time and make it slow down, to stay a while so that I can embrace now. How is it already the end of 2015?
This week, I have begun my "End of the year" reflections. It's been a season of all kinds of dichotomies and deserves a good chunk of time to processing through.
This weekend, I look forward to quality time (the best kind of time) with friends and family, celebration of my grandmother's birthday, calligraphy practice, and a fresh [hair] cut.
Happy Friday!
Cheers to a healthy, fit 2016!
Creativity and inspiration
Discovering gems throughout the city: "You are here"
Reading between the lines and light
The best time of the year!
During my weeklong media fast (post here) I was lucky enough to have my husband all to myself for the entirety of a weekday on Veteran's Day. We crossed off "Climb Bukhan Mountain" off our to-do list that day.
We slept in until a reasonable hour and then with a backpack on [his] back, hiking shoes tied tight, we leisurely made our way over. We stopped to pick up a few rolls of kimbap at the base of the mountain to indulge in after our ascent.
It started off like a stroll in the park and I even mentally patted myself on the back: "Grace, this isn't bad at all. Good job! You must be in better shape that you had expected!" But I had spoke too soon. Only then was I quickly met with the strenuous latter half. Cold hands and grumbling heart, I had no choice but to go onwards and upwards. A selfie was taken to serve as evidence that "We were here".
There was something enlightening about being at the "highest point" in Seoul - 836 meters high, overlooking the city - high-rises appeared like legos and childhood memories. The quiet provided a moment to breathe in nature, palatial and lovable, and to dream big for this land and for me.
